Chains
by ThreeMagpies
Summary: A Revolution fic for the Good Ship Charloe, Charloe 500 fic challenge. Bass Monroe, Charlie Matheson. Charloe. Blackout AU. Two days after Pottsboro, on the road to Willoughby. Charlie is chained to the bench seat of the wagon next to Sebastian Monroe, wondering why she is still alive.
1. Chapter 1

Chains

A Revolution fic for the Good Ship Charloe, Charloe 500 fic challenge. Bass Monroe, Charlie Matheson. Charloe. Blackout AU. Two days after Pottsboro, on the road to Willoughby. Charlie is chained to the bench seat of the wagon next to Sebastian Monroe, wondering why she is still alive.

AN: Yay the Good Ship Charloe! And a huge thank-you to the lovely LemonSupreme for breaking out the sails, raising anchor and taking us off on a new Charloe challenge.

…..

The question had been brewing in her mind since he saved her from the bastards in that stupid bar and the urge to ask it was getting stronger now that they were on their way to what was left of her family.

She flicked her eyes towards him, part of her mind noticing how his sweat stiffened blond curls were blown back by the wind of their passage giving her a perfect view of his high forehead, straight nose and the chiselled lips framed by his short, almost elegant scruff. His blue eyes were narrowed against the sun's glare and he gazed steadily ahead out of a sun bronzed face that was dramatically good looking even bruised and streaked with blood dried to dirty bronze by rain and sun. A trickle of sweat ran down his neck, leading her eyes to the swell of smooth skin over tight muscle revealed by the torn, open vee of his shirt and an image of him back in the fight tent, tall, half naked and sinfully dangerous flashed through her brain like a tongue of fire licking her skin.

Damn it. He was the enemy. She shouldn't be noticing things like that, thinking of him like that. Her glance dropped to his hands on the reins.

The fingers were long and hard but well-shaped even with torn nails and knuckles bruised and scarred from fighting, the hands big, strong. The same hands that had swung his swords with such devastating ease, killing those men as though it was nothing.

He'd made it look easy, effortless.

Her teeth tore at her bottom lip as memory made her legs tense, back stiffen and her blood race in fight/flight reflex. Back in the bar, feeling herself falling and helpless to stop it, even with the drugs hazing her mind her heart had nearly climbed out through her throat when he burst through the locked double doors into the dirty, smoky room like some tall, graceful, deadly beast. She remembered her breath rasping in her throat as she watched him weave and stab and slice his way towards her then shove his blade right through the last man, his eyes searing into hers like twin suns just before her horizon went dark.

Deep inside, some fierce part of her still burned bright with a breathless, primal joy and absolute satisfaction mixed with shame because killing shouldn't be that easy, should it? But she would have killed them herself if she could and that was the cold, hard truth.

In Philly she'd thought him cruel but soft, letting others like that slime Strausser do his dirty work for him. Then she'd seen him fight in New Vegas and Pottsboro and knew he wasn't soft, knew he was a killer through and through. He'd said it himself and it was true. He was good at killing and she'd absolutely waited long enough to find out why he was keeping her alive.

She sat up straight on the bench seat, the pressure of the question making her voice harsh, demanding, even more than she'd intended. 'I've told you where Miles is, so why keep me with you? Why not just let me go, or kill me?'

His lips tightened under the scruff but he didn't say anything.

She turned to face him. 'You don't need me. Having me there won't stop Miles wanting to kill you. You know that.'

He still didn't say anything, just flicked the reins to guide the horses round the rusted wreck of a car. One of them snorted, rearing up a little and he made a little clucking sound, the sound gentling, soothing, his hands relaxed but firm. The horse settled, tail twitching, relaxing back into a steady walk.

It was funny, but the horses seemed to like him, damned if she knew why.

Damn him too. She was pissed now, her eyes spitting, lips curled into a hard smile. 'I nearly had you back in New Vegas. I had a clean shot and if those fucking bounty hunters hadn't knocked you out of the way we wouldn't be having this conversation because you'd be dead.' She was so angry she jerked forward, the heavy chain around her middle making a rattling metallic sound. She sat back down with a thump, gritting her teeth.

Shit. She'd forgotten it again. He'd rummaged through the stuff in the wagon and chained her to the bench seat after she tried to escape for the third time.

'And the reason you won't let me go is because you know that next time I'll finish the job.' She jerked up again without thinking and sucked in a breath as the hard links dug into the bare skin between her jeans and tank but she kept going anyway, her voice getting louder with every breath. 'What happened back there doesn't change the way I feel or what you've done. You're going to have to undo me sometime and If you want to stop me killing you the next chance I get you're going to have to shoot me.'

He took a deep breath, sighed it out. 'Charlotte. Back at the Tower the enemy had you pinned and I saved your life. Do you remember that?' The words were clipped, controlled, his voice steely as he turned to look at her, his eyes holding hers as tight as the chain around her waist. He looked angry, dangerous, 'and at the pool you allowed those two idiots get the drop on you and your smart mouth nearly got you killed again, then back at that shitty little town if I hadn't found you when I did, you'd have been raped and worse by every guy in that bar and either already dead or wishing you were.' He shook his head in disgust and turned, checking the road then swung back to her, leaning in too close, less in control this time, his face set in harsh lines and his eyes bright, hard, challenging her to deny it. 'You're an accident waiting to happen and the sooner I can hand you back to Miles the better I'll like it.'

She glared at him, refusing to back away and furious because not only wasn't he taking her seriously, he made it sound as though she was stupid, careless. 'I'm not some helpless kid, Monroe.' Outrage made her spit it out, her eyes sparring with his. 'I walked all the way from Willoughby to New Vegas on my own tracking you down and I spent plenty of time in towns and bars doing exactly what I wanted without getting drugged or raped by anybody.'

He leaned closer, his face totally calm and totally, completely implacable, his eyes raking her from the top of her head to her toes, lingering on her full lips and the lush curves of her breasts under the threadbare tank then rising to meet hers again, the heat in them making the blue gaze burn.

She swallowed, shocked at the way her body responded to his, her heart pounding, nipples tingling and her pants suddenly way too tight between her legs.

His eyes narrowed, and he leaned even closer, a very male appreciation gleaming in the blue depths. 'Maybe you did and maybe I'll agree that you aren't a kid, Charlotte, but as you obviously suck at looking after yourself right now I'm taking you to Miles and your mom whether you like it or not.' His lips curved in a smile full of danger and insinuation, 'even if I have keep you chained to that bench or to me the whole fucking way.'

She stared back at him, her emotions a roiling, confused mess, his closeness overwhelming her, the thought of actually being chained to him, close enough for her to touch him, close enough for him to touch her if he wanted to going round and round in her head in a weird mix of anger, shame, guilt and a raging, inescapable, visceral desire to find out what it would be like.

Except she'd never let him touch her, never.

She shivered, uneasy...

Because somehow that felt like a lie.

….

Thanks so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed this story set in one of my favourite Charloe scenarios. There are lots of lovely prompts waiting to be written on the writers page of the GSC though (I'm working on a couple of them now) and I'm so looking forward to reading wonderful stories from other people inspired by the road trip...

Cheers, Magpie.


	2. Chapter 2

Chains, part 2: A show of faith

A Revolution fic for the Good Ship Charloe - Charloe 500 fic fest. Bass Monroe, Charlie Matheson. Charloe. Blackout AU. Three days after Pottsboro, Bass is avoiding towns and settlements in case they run into more bounty hunters. He has taken them by back roads into deep woods grown thick and wild since the blackout. Along the way Charlie's hunters instincts flare. Something's hunting them and she's still chained to the bench.

AN: Hi there, and thanks SO much for your lovely comments and kudos, they are very much appreciated. Chains was originally written as a one-shot, but then this came along, so fasten your seat belts 'cause it might be a bumpy ride (but is it ever smooth for these two?).

…..

Three days on the road and neither one of them is going to be the first to give in, although Charlie has to admit being chained up to the bench or to Monroe himself is getting old, especially the bit where he's at one end of the chain while she's at the other doing the necessary behind a tree. At least he doesn't look, she's pretty sure of that anyway, but there's nothing wrong with his ears and she can't help making some noise.

Night's worse though, the chain's not nearly long enough and every time he rolls over she has no choice but to move too or end up way too close to that long, hard body. It's almost as if he's doing it on purpose. Moron.

She grits her teeth and bites back a yawn, slanting a blue glare at the man sitting next to her.

His lips twitch but he doesn't say anything.

She sniffs, looks back at the road, her eyes drifting to the tall stands of trees and thick undergrowth lining it on both sides and yawns wide, not able to hold it in this time. Shit. It was alright for him, he got some sleep last night, she knew that because she was awake watching him, and when she realised that he could wake from a deep sleep to total alert at the slightest fucking sound, she wasn't even able to keep working on busting out of the chain. She shuffles against the backrest, trying to find a more comfortable position. The damn chain keeps digging in to her spine.

Right now she's almost ready to give in and give him her word not to run and not to try to kill him again until after he's handed her over to Miles. Almost. But her solid core of Matheson stubbornness is refusing to let her say the words out loud.

She yawns again.

They're in deep woods now, in what used to be small town and farm territory but mostly abandoned now, heading for the hills. It's quiet, cool and shadowed going along quiet roads tree lined and winding, shafts of sunlight falling through gaps in branch and foliage and pooling in bright circles on the ground and she blinks and concentrates on deep breaths to stay awake.

Monroe is taking them to Willoughby by the back roads, staying away from places where people gather and where bounty hunters and the so called new government troops might be patrolling. She understands and agrees in principal although for her own reasons. He knows that sooner or later someone is going to make him.

It won't be her, and she's pretty sure he knows that. She doesn't share, and she'd rather put a bullet in his brain herself than let the Patriots have him.

It'll be someone like Jeff.

A fleeting memory of sweet boyish Jeff with his smooth skin and warm eyes flashes across her mind, her body remembering urgent, whiskey kisses and hard, male flesh. But as soon as he told her that he'd seen Monroe, Jeff might as well have not existed, because all she could think about was finding Sebastian Monroe.

She glances at the man next to her, at that oh so infamous face, remembering the General who turned into the lean, hard muscled and coldly ferocious fighter she found in New Vegas, who then showed her just how good he was at killing by executing the men in that bar without hesitation or mercy.

Not that they deserved any.

There's nothing remotely sweet about Monroe, but something in her likes that, even admires it. How twisted is that? But in her experience, sweet is like the ice cream she remembers eating as a child the night everything changed, cramming it in before it all melted away. Sweet is just brief, transient pleasure, like Jeff, like the ice cream and it doesn't have any value apart from that. She can take it or leave it.

But Monroe is like stone, or metal. Hard, tempered steel. He's a survivor like her, and fate has given her more in common with him than with someone like Jeff because anything and everything sweet inside her has melted away and gone too.

The thought of being like him makes her frown, just a little. Her feelings towards him are not clear anymore, the edges are becoming more and more blurred.

The bounty on his head is sixty diamonds, probably even more now and it's a certain bet that every bounty hunter for miles around is looking for him. She frowns and reaches down for the bottle at her feet, tipping it back and taking a long swallow of the slightly stale water inside. They'll need to stop soon for more. And they need food too. She can't hunt chained up, but maybe she could put some traps out? A fat rabbit or two would be a welcome change from beans.

Maybe she's going crazy or having some kind of weird reaction to being rescued by him then becoming his prisoner? Because the Patriots and bounty hunters are beginning to feel like the enemy, not him.

Monroe holds out a hand for the bottle and she passes it over.

'Thank you, Charlotte.'

She doesn't answer, but watches his throat move as he tips his head back and swallows, his Adam's apple pulsing, the muscles in his neck strong and hard like the rest of him, the skin smooth except for the sweat damp curls of his beard. Her eyes rove down to the broad shoulders. The arm he's using to control the horses while he drinks is flexing, the muscles bunching and releasing, his fingers manipulating the leather straps easily, smoothly.

Her belly tightens, her body humming and her mind conjuring fantasies around those fingers, that body, picturing hard driving, sweaty, barnstorming sex with him. Monroe. Shit. She looks away, biting her lip, trying to stop thinking, but she is so fucking aware that he is drinking from the same bottle she did, that his mouth was where hers was just a moment ago, that he'd be able to taste her there that she can't stop. She can feel her cheeks burning as a pulse runs from her belly to her clit that is so urgent and needy that she sucks in a gasp at the strength of it. Damn it, what's wrong with her?

He finishes and passes the bottle back, his eyes flicking down to the chain around her waist then away again, frowning a little when he sees the red marks the links are leaving on her skin. 'Just give me your word and I'll take that off.'

She ignores him, not feeling able to say anything without giving herself away so she takes the bottle, slaps the stopper back in and puts it back on the floor, ignoring the sting as she bends down.

His lips tighten and his eyes linger on her face, concerned, 'I found some bandages in back, next time we stop I'll get them for you, they can go underneath.' When she doesn't say anything he shakes his head a little, muttering something under his breath.

She shrugs, able to breathe again but not to look him in the eye yet, hoping he hasn't noticed that it isn't the chain making her flushed, part of her wondering if he's thought of her that way at all. Maybe he hasn't? Maybe she really is just Miles' niece who keeps getting into trouble? She doesn't like that thought though, it feels…demeaning.

Maybe she'll take the bandages, but he doesn't need to know that, not yet anyway. Let him stew like she is... She looks at what's around them instead. The road is narrow, rough and stony now, snaking between high trees and shadows but as the wagon bumps and grinds around the next corner she gasps. On her side the road suddenly slips away into a steep, rock and boulder covered drop down to a valley bottom that looks a long way down. On the other, the land rises into a steep cliff draped in ferns and moss with trickles of water running down.

The horses snort and toss their heads, nervous, pulling away to the cliff side.

Monroe makes that clicking sound with his tongue again, then talks a little, reassuring them, his hands urging them on.

The horses keep going although it's obvious they're not happy, their heads tossing and ears back. Their skins shiver, long tails swishing from side to side and specks of white foam fly off as they chew their bits. The hoof beats sound loud, clattering in the gloom, echoes coming back to them from the rocks in an eerie counterpoint.

Charlie catches their uneasiness and glances over the edge into the ravine. There are trees hanging onto the steep banks, trunks and branches sharply angled and desperately clinging, the tops deceptively close. At the bottom she can see the glint of a river tumbling over rocks into a still dark pool where birds and insects flutter and swoop and fish make slow ripples. There's the scent of green, growing things and the tang of water. It's beautiful, calm, normal but her instincts are tingling. Something isn't right.

Her eyes scan the road then back up over the rocks on the other side to the tree lined rim, searching the shadows.

They're being watched.

Monroe takes one hand off the reins, leans down picks up his rifle from the floor, holding it out to her. His eyes gleam, challenge, a dare and something else, something hot and ready for anything in the blue gaze. 'It's loaded.' His voice is calm and even but with an underlying tension, his head tipping towards the road, 'up ahead, big rock at two o'clock.' He is managing to pull the horses back a bit, but something is really spooking them, they're restless and sweating, eyes wide, big hindquarters tense and a moment away from bolting in panic and he's working hard with one hand trying to keep them in line. He shoves the gun towards her with the other. 'Here, take it'.

She nods, her mind reeling as she realises that he hasn't missed anything. He knows exactly what's been going through her mind about him. She takes the weapon and stares at him as he tries to calm the horses down. Even with two hands it's a battle because whatever it is that's up on that rock is really shaking their cool. There's no way he can shoot and handle them at the same time, but even so...

He's given her a gun.

The possibilities go through her mind in a whirling flash. But if she shoots him now she'll have to deal with panicked horses, and she's still chained to the wagon. Fuck.

His lips curl into a little smile as if he knows what she's thinking, which he probably does. 'A show of faith, Charlotte,' he says, just like he did before.

Ok. She makes up her mind, lifts the gun, braces the stock against the thickest muscles of her shoulder to try and keep it steady against the rock and roll of the wagon. Actually, having the chain wrapped around her helps keep her steady, how weird is that. She locates the rock. It's about fifty feet ahead and ten feet up, a flat bottomed outcrop draped in moss and trailing branches from the trees above it. There's plenty of cover and it's a perfect place for an ambush. She keeps her voice down, leaning towards him, ignoring the pull and pinch of the chain. 'What d'you think's up there?'

He doesn't look at her, stays focused on the horses and keeping the wagon upright. 'Has to be an animal, a predator. These guys wouldn't be so spooked if it was human.'

She searches the scrub on top of the rocks for something, anything, then spots a shape, a silhouette, a sun dappled, sinuous shadow right on the edge and she sucks in a breath. 'Mountain Lion. Shit.'

Monroe somehow manages to slow the horses to a walk, then a stamping, restless halt, the wagon rocking. He glances at her. 'You sure?'

She chews her lip, nods, keeps the gun steady. 'Yeah. It's too small for a bear and the wrong shape for a wolf.' She shrugs, 'at least lions are usually on their own, unless it's a female with cubs.'

He looks up, scanning the rocks above them, 'it probably won't attack. We're too big, too many targets.' His hands work at pulling the horses back into line. They're restless and scared, fighting the harness as well as Monroe. 'But the horses won't go past while it's sitting up there.'

Charlie nods and takes a breath. 'I know.' But she doesn't like the idea of killing the lion. It hasn't attacked them or even threatened them.

'Are you a good enough shot to scare it but not hit it?' His voice is cool, calm. It's like he's reading her mind.

She glares at him, 'I'm good enough.'

An eyebrow lifts and his lips twitch again. 'Ok then. Do it.'

Her lips curve too, shark-like. The smile from the pool. 'Are you good enough to keep this wagon still so I can shoot without hitting you instead?'

There's challenge and a distinct glimmer of admiration in his eyes now and his gaze drops to her mouth, tongue darting out over his lips. 'I'm plenty good enough. And remember, if you hit me we'll probably both die.'

She shrugs. 'Maybe that's not such a bad thing?'

He looks at her hard this time, the humour gone but there's understanding there instead. 'I said it before, Charlie, things are gonna to get bad with these Patriots, I know it. Your family is going to need me and they're going to need you too.' He leans closer, 'It'd be a bad thing, believe me.'

She stares at him. He's close enough that she can see the truth in his eyes.

She turns, aims a few feet above the rock and fires in a smooth, easy movement, holding her breath until she sees the lion run, bounding up over the rocks, through the trees and away out of sight. It's beautiful and she's very glad she didn't have to kill it.

The wagon lurches forward and Charlie holds the rifle tight, bracing herself against the backboard as the startled horses rear and plunge then take off, dragging the wagon down the road.

Monroe doesn't try to stop them, he simply keeps them going straight and together until a little way down the road past the rocks the horses slow down, puffing and blowing hard, their sides heaving and sweat steaming from dark patches on the bay coats.

Charlie has simply been holding on, keeping her balance as well as she can and keeping the rifle ready just in case the lion comes after them. There's no sign of it though and she doesn't think there will be. Monroe's right, lions are cautious hunters and she's seen plenty of game around. There's no reason for the big cat to take on humans with rifles.

Monroe keeps the horses walking to cool them down and once they get past the ravine and the rocky cutaway and the road leads away from the river he pulls over and stops then turns to her, his mouth opening to say something.

Charlie takes a deep breath, lets it out, then hands the rifle back and gets in first. 'Ok. I won't try to leave, kill you or turn you in to anyone until we get to Willoughby.'

He jerks, then takes the gun and looks at her, surprise and something almost vulnerable in his eyes.

She stares back, giving him glare with an edge, it wouldn't do to let him think he's getting off easy or that she's forgotten anything. 'Satisfied?'

He is very still for a moment. Then he pulls a key out of his pocket and unlocks the padlock holding the chain to the bench.

…..

AN: Hi there and thanks so much for reading, I'm really enjoying this challenge – focusing in on the road trip itself is bringing up all sorts of ideas. Anyway, hope you enjoyed this bit – things are heating up between Bass and Charlie and there might be more to this story. Hope to see you at the next one J cheers, Magpie


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